Chapter I: Gerolstein

_Prince Henry of Herkauesen-Oldenzaal to the Count Maximilian
Kaminetz._

OLDENZAAL, 25th August, 1840.

I am just arrived from Gerolstein, where I have passed three
months with the grand duke and his family. I expected to find a
letter announcing your arrival at Oldenzaal, my dear Maximilian.
Judge of my surprise--of my regret, on hearing that you will be
detained in Hungary for several weeks.

For more than four months I have been unable to write to you,
not knowing where to direct my letters, thanks to your original
and adventurous manner of travelling. You had, however, formally
promised me at Vienna that you would be at Oldenzaal the first
of August; I must then give up the pleasure of seeing you, and
yet I have never had greater need of pouring forth my sorrows to
you, Maximilian, my oldest friend, for although we are both of
us still very young, our friendship is of long standing, as it
dates from our childhood.

What shall I say to you? During the last three months a complete
revolution has taken place in me. I am at one of those moments
that decide the existence of a man. Judge, then, how necessary
your presence and your advice are to me. But you will not long
be wanting, whatever motives you have for remaining in Hungary.
Come! Come! I entreat of you, Maximilian, for I stand in need of
you to console me, and I cannot go to seek you. My father, whose
health is daily declining, has summoned me from Gerolstein. Each
day makes so great an alteration in him that it is impossible
for me to leave him.

I have so much to say that I shall become tedious, but I must
relate to you the most important--the most romantic incident of
my life. Why were you not there, my friend? Why were you not
there? For three months my heart has been a prey to emotions
equally sweet and sorrowful, and I was alone--I was alone.
Sympathise with me, you who know the sensibility of my heart,
you who have seen my eyes filled with tears at the simple
recital of a noble or generous action, at the simple sight of a
splendid sunset--of the sky studded with bright stars.

Do you recollect last year, on our excursion to the ruins of
Oppenfeld, on the shore of the vast lake, our reveries during
that evening, so full of calm, of poesy, and of peace? Strange
contrast! It was three days before that bloody duel, in which I
would not accept you for my second, for I should have suffered
too much for you had I been wounded before your eyes,--the duel
in which, for a dispute at play, my second unhappily killed the
young Frenchman, the Comte de Saint-Remy.

Apropos, do you know what has become of the dangerous siren whom
M. de Saint-Remy brought with him to Oppenfeld, and whose name
was, I think, Cecily David?

You will doubtless, my friend, smile with pity at seeing me thus
losing myself amongst idle recollections of the past, instead of
coming at once to the grave disclosures that I have announced my
intention of making; but, in spite of myself, I delay the time
from moment to moment. I know how severe you are, and I am
fearful of being blamed. Yes, blamed; because, instead of acting
with reflection and prudence (prudence of one and twenty,
alas!), I have acted foolishly, or, rather, I have not acted at
all as--I have suffered myself to be carried away by the stream
that urged me on, and it is only since my return from Gerolstein
that I have been awakened from the enchanting vision that has
lulled me to sleep for the last three months, and this awaking
has been a sorrowful one.

Now, my friend, my dear Maximilian, I take courage. Hear me
indulgently; I begin with fear and trembling--I dare not look at
you, for when you read these lines, how grave and stern will
your face become, stoic that you are!

After having obtained leave of absence for six months, I left
Vienna, and remained some time with my father. His health was
then good, and he advised me to visit my aunt, the Princess
Juliana, superior of the abbey of Gerolstein. I think I have
already told you that my grandfather was cousin-german to the
present duke's grandfather, and the Duke Gustavus Rodolph,
thanks to this relationship, had always treated my father and
myself as his cousins.

You also know, I think, that during a long stay the prince made
recently in France my father was left at the head of the affairs
of the duchy. It is not any feeling of ostentatious pride, as
you well know, Maximilian, that makes me recapitulate all these
circumstances, but to explain to you the causes of the extreme
intimacy that existed between the grand duke and myself during
my stay at Gerolstein.

Do you recollect that last year, after our voyage on the banks
of the Rhine, we heard that the prince had found and married,
_in extremis_, the Countess Macgregor, in order to legitimise
the daughter he had had by her by a previous and secret
marriage, afterwards annulled, because it had been contracted
against the consent of the late grand duke?

This young girl, thus formally recognised, this charming
Princess Amelie, of whom Lord Dudley, who had seen her at
Gerolstein about a year ago, spoke to us with an enthusiasm that
we suspected of exaggeration, strange chance! who would have
said then--

But although you have doubtless penetrated my secret, let me
pursue the progress of events.

The convent of Ste. Hermangeld, of which my aunt is abbess, is
scarcely a quarter of a league from Gerolstein, for the gardens
of the abbey touch the outskirts of the town. A charming house,
perfectly isolated from the cloisters, had been placed at my
disposal by my aunt, who has, as you know, the affection of a
mother for me. The day of my arrival she informed me a grand
drawing-room would be held the next day, as the grand duke was
going formally to announce his intended marriage with La
Marquise d'Harville, who had just arrived at Gerolstein with her
father, the Comte d'Orbigny.

The duke was blamed by some for not having sought an alliance
with some royal house, but others, and amongst them my aunt,
congratulated him on having chosen, instead of a marriage of
ambition, a young and lovely woman to whom he was deeply
attached, and who belonged to one of the first families in
France. You know, too, that my aunt has always had the greatest
regard for the grand duke, and has always appreciated his fine
qualities.

"My dear child," said she to me, speaking of the drawing-room,
to which I was going the next day,--"my dear child, the most
astonishing sight you will see to-morrow will be the pearl of
Gerolstein."

"Of whom are you talking, my dear aunt?"

"Of the Princess Amelie."

"The grand duke's daughter? Lord Dudley spoke of her at Vienna
with warmth we suspected of exaggeration."

"At my age and in my position," replied my aunt, "people do not
exaggerate, so you can trust to my judgment, and I assure you I
never knew any one more enchanting than the Princess Amelie. I
would speak of her beauty were it not for an indefinable charm
she possesses, superior even to her beauty. From the first day
that the grand duke presented me to her, I felt myself
irresistibly drawn towards her; and I am not the only person.
The Archduchess Sophia is at Gerolstein, and is the most proud
and haughty princess I know."

"Very true, aunt; her irony is terrible, very few persons escape
from her sarcasms; at Vienna every one dreaded her. Can the
Princess Amelie have found favour in her eyes?"

"The other day she came here after visiting the asylum placed
under the princess's direction. 'Do you know,' said this
redoubtable archduchess to me, 'that if I resided long with the
grand duke's daughter I should become quite harmless, so
contagious is her goodness!'"

"Why, my cousin must be an enchantress!" said I, laughing, to my
aunt.

"Her most powerful charm, at least in my eyes," replied my aunt,
"is the mixture of sweetness, modesty, and dignity that I have
told you of, and which gives a most touching expression to her
face."

"Indeed, aunt, modesty is a rare quality in a princess so young,
so beautiful, and so happy."

"Reflect that the princess is still more deserving of praise for
her modesty, as her elevation is so very recent."

"In her interview with you, aunt, did the princess make any
reference to her early life?"

"No; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, I addressed her
with the respect due to her rank, since her royal highness is
the grand duke's daughter, her ingenuous confusion, mingled with
gratitude and veneration for me, quite overpowered me; for her
reserve, full of dignity and affability, proved to me that her
present elevation did not make her forget her past life, and
that she accorded to my age what I accorded to her rank."

"It must require," said I, "the most perfect tact to observe
those nice differences."

"My dear boy, the more I see of the princess, the more I
congratulate myself on my first impression. Since she has been
here the number of charitable acts she has done is incredible,
and that with a reflection and a judgment that in a person of
her age quite surprises me. Judge yourself. At her request the
grand duke has founded at Gerolstein an establishment for
orphans of five or six years, and for young girls (who are
either orphans or abandoned by their parents) of the age of
sixteen, that age so fatal to those who are not protected
against the temptations of vice or the pressure of want.

"The good sisters of my convent teach and direct the children of
this asylum. During my visits there I have had ample
opportunities of judging of the adoration that these poor,
unfortunate creatures have for the princess. Every day she
spends several hours at this place, which is placed under her
protection, and I repeat that it is not merely gratitude and
respect that the children and nuns feel towards the princess, it
almost amounts to fanaticism."

"The princess must be an angel," said I to my aunt.

"An angel, indeed!" replied she, "for you cannot conceive with
what touching kindness she treats her young protegees. I have
never seen the susceptibility of misfortune meet with more
delicate sympathy. You would think some irresistible attraction
drew the princess towards this class of unfortunates. Will you
believe it? she, the daughter of a sovereign, only addresses
these poor children as 'my sisters!'"

At these last words of my aunt I confess I felt my eyes fill
with tears. Do you not also admire the admirable and pious
conduct of this young princess?

"Since the princess," said I, "is so marvellously gifted, I
shall be greatly embarrassed when I am presented to her
to-morrow. You know how timid I am; you know, also, that
elevation of character imposes upon me more than high birth, so
that I am certain to appear both stupid and embarrassed
to-morrow; so I make up my mind to that beforehand."

"Come, come!" said my aunt, smiling, "she will take pity upon
you, the more readily as you are not quite a stranger to her."

"I am not a stranger to her, aunt?"

"Certainly not."

"How so?"

"You recollect that when at the age of sixteen you left
Oldenzaal, to travel with your father through Russia and
England, I had your portrait painted in the costume you wore at
the first _bal costume_ the late duchess gave?"

"Yes, aunt, the costume of a German page of the sixteenth
century."

"Our famous painter, Fritz Mocker, whilst he painted a faithful
likeness of you, not only produced a page of that century, but
even the style of the pictures of that time.

"Some days after her arrival at Gerolstein, the Princess Amelie,
who had come with her father to visit me, remarked your
portrait, and asked what was that charming picture of olden
times. Her father smiled, and said, 'This is the portrait of a
cousin of ours, who would be, were he now alive (as you see by
his dress), some three hundred years old, but who, although very
young, made himself remarkable for his courage and goodness of
heart; has he not bravery in his eyes and goodness in his
smile?'"

Do not, I entreat you, Maximilian, shrug your shoulders with
disdain at seeing me write these puerile details of myself,
which are, alas, necessary to my story.

"The Princess Amelie," continued my aunt, "deceived by this
innocent pleasantry, after a long examination of your portrait,
joined with her father in praising the amiable and determined
expression of your face. Some time after, when I went to
Gerolstein, she questioned me playfully about 'her cousin of the
olden time.'

"I then explained the trick to her, and told her that the
handsome page of the sixteenth century was really the Prince
Henry d'Herkauesen-Oldenzaal, a young man of one and twenty,
captain in the guards of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, and
in every other respect than the costume very like his picture.
At these words the princess," continued my aunt, "blushed and
became serious, and has never since spoken of the picture.
However, you see that you are not quite a stranger to your
cousin; so take courage, and maintain the reputation of your
portrait."

This conversation took place, as I have already told you, the
evening previous to the day on which I was to be presented to
the princess my cousin. I left my aunt, and returned to my own
apartments.

You have often told me, my dear Maximilian, that I was totally
free from vanity; I must therefore trust to that to prevent my
appearing vain during this recital.

As soon as I was alone I reflected with a secret satisfaction
that the Princess Amelie, after seeing my portrait, painted five
or six years ago, had inquired after "her cousin of the olden
time."

Nothing could be more absurd than to build the slightest hope on
so trivial a circumstance, I acknowledge; but I always treat you
with the most perfect confidence, and I acknowledge that this
trifling circumstance delighted me.

No doubt the praise I had just heard bestowed on the princess by
so grave and austere a person as my aunt, by raising her in my
estimation, rendered this circumstance more agreeable.

Why should I tell you? The hopes I conceived from this trifling
event were so mad that, now that I look back more calmly on the
past, I ask myself how I could have indulged in ideas that must
have ended in my destruction.

Although related to the grand duke, and always treated by him
with the greatest kindness, yet it was impossible to entertain
the slightest hope of a marriage with the princess; even had she
returned my affection it would still have been impossible. Our
family holds an honourable position, but it is poor when
compared with the grand duke, the richest prince of the German
confederation; and besides, I was only one and twenty, a simple
captain in the guards, without any reputation or any position.
Never could the grand duke think of me as a suitor for his
daughter.

All these reflections ought to have saved me from a passion I
did not as yet feel, but of which I had a strange presentiment.

Alas! I rather gave way to fresh puerilities; I wore on my
finger a ring that Thecla (the countess of whom I have so often
spoken) had given me, although this souvenir of a boyish love
could not have much embarrassed me. I sacrificed it to my new
flame, and, opening the window, I cast the ring into the waves
of the river that flowed beneath.

I have no need to tell you what a night I passed, you can
imagine; I knew the princess was very beautiful; I sought to
picture to myself her features, her air, her manner, her figure,
the sound of her voice; and thinking of my portrait which she
had noticed I recollected that the artist had flattered me
excessively, and I contrasted the picturesque dress of a page of
the sixteenth century with the simple uniform of a captain of
the Austrian guards.

But amidst all these absurd ideas some generous thoughts crossed
my mind, and I was overcome,--yes, overcome by the recollection
of the tenderness of the princess for those poor girls whom she
always terms "my sisters."

The next day the hour for the reception came. I tried on several
uniforms one after another, found them all to fit me very ill,
and departed very dissatisfied with myself.

Although Gerolstein is only a quarter of a league from Ste.
Hermangeld, during the short journey all the childish ideas that
had so occupied me during the night had given place to one sad
and grave thought.

An invincible presentiment told me I was approaching one of the
crises of my life. A magical inspiration revealed to me that I
was about to love, to love as a man loves but once in his life;
and, as if to complete my misfortunes, this love, as loftily as
deservedly bestowed, was doomed to be unhappy.

You do not know the grand ducal palace of Gerolstein. In the
opinion of every one who has visited the capitals of Europe,
there is, with the exception of Versailles, no royal residence
that has a more regal and imposing appearance.

If at this time I speak of this, it is because, thinking over
them, I wonder how they did not recall me to myself; for the
Princess Amelie was the daughter of the sovereign of this
palace, these guards, and of these riches.

You arrived at the palace by the marble court; so called,
because, with the exception of a drive for the carriages, it is
paved with variegated marble, forming the most magnificent
mosaics, in the centre of which is a basin of breccia antique,
into which a stream of water flows from a porphyry vase.

This court of honour is surrounded by a row of beautiful marble
statues, holding candelabras of gilt bronze, from which sprung
brilliant jets of gas. Alternately with these statues are the
Medicean vases, raised on richly sculptured pedestals, and
filled with rose laurels, whose leaves shine in the lights with
a metallic lustre.

The carriages stopped at the foot of the double staircase
leading to the peristyle of the palace. At the foot of this
staircase were stationed on guard, mounted on their black
horses, two soldiers of the regiment of the guards of the grand
duke. You would have been struck with the stern and warlike
appearance of these two giants, whose cuirasses and helmets,
made like those of the ancients, without crest or plume,
sparkled in the sun.

These soldiers wore blue coats with yellow collars, buckskin
breeches, and jack-boots. To please you who are so fond of
military details, I add, that at the top landing of the
staircase were stationed, as sentinels, two grenadiers of the
foot-guards of the duke. Their uniform, with the exception of
the colour of the coat and facings, resembles, I am told, that
of Napoleon's grenadiers.

After traversing the vestibule, where the porters of the duke
were stationed, halberd in hand, I ascended a splendid staircase
of white marble, which opened upon a portico, ornamented with
jasper columns, and surmounted by a painted and gilt cupola.
There were two long files of domestics.

I then entered the guard-room, at the door of which I found a
chamberlain and an aide-de-camp, whose duty it was to present to
his royal highness those persons who were entitled to this
honour. My relationship, though distant, procured me a special
presentation. An aide-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery,
filled with gentlemen in full court dress or uniform, and
splendidly attired ladies.

Whilst I passed through this brilliant assembly, I heard here
and there remarks that augmented my embarrassment. Every one
admired the angelic beauty of the Princess Amelie, the charming
appearance of the Marquise d'Harville, and the imperial air of
the Archduchess Sophia, who, recently arrived from Munich with
the Archduke Stanislaus, was about to depart for Warsaw; but
whilst rendering their just tribute of admiration to the lofty
bearing of the duchess and to the charms of the Marquise
d'Harville, every one agreed that nothing could exceed the
loveliness of the Princess Amelie.

As I approached the spot where the grand duke and the princess
were I felt my heart beat more and more violently. At the moment
that I entered the salon (I forgot to tell you there was a
concert and ball at court) the famous Liszt sat down to the
piano, and instantly the most profound silence succeeded to the
conversation that was going on. I waited in the embrasure of a
door until Liszt had finished the piece he was playing with his
accustomed taste.

It was then that I saw the Princess Amelie for the first time.

I must tell you all that passed, for I feel an indescribable
pleasure in writing it.

Picture to yourself a large salon furnished with regal
splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hung with crimson silk,
embroidered with wreaths of flowers in gold. In the first row,
on large gilt chairs, sat the Archduchess Sophia with Madame
d'Harville on her left, and the Princess Amelie on her right.
Behind them stood the duke in the uniform of colonel of the
guards. He seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform set
off his fine figure and noble features. Beside him was the
Archduke Stanislaus in the uniform of a field-marshal; then came
the princess's maids of honour, the ladies of the grand
dignitaries of the court, and then the dignitaries themselves.

I need scarcely tell you that the Princess Amelie was less
conspicuous by her rank than by her extraordinary beauty. Do not
condemn me without reading this description of her. Although it
falls far short of the reality, you will understand my
adoration. You will understand that as soon as I saw her I loved
her; and that the suddenness of my passion can only be equalled
by its violence and its eternity.

The Princess Amelie was dressed in a plain white watered silk
dress, and wore, like the archduchess, the riband of the
imperial order of St. Nepomucenus recently sent to her by the
empress. A diadem of pearls surrounded her head, and harmonised
admirably with two splendid braids of fair hair that shaded her
delicate cheeks. Her arms, whiter than the lace that ornamented
them, were half hidden in long gloves, reaching nearly to her
elbow.

Nothing could be more perfect than her figure, nothing more
charming than her foot in its satin slipper. At the moment when
I saw her her beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expression. I do
not know whether some serious thought came over her, or whether
she was impressed with the grave melody of the piece Liszt was
playing; but the expression of her countenance seemed to me full
of sweetness and melancholy.

Never can I express my feelings at that moment. All that my aunt
had related of her goodness crossed my mind.

Smile if you will, but my eyes became full of tears when I saw
this young girl, so beautiful and so idolised by such a father,
seem so melancholy and pensive.

You know how scrupulously etiquette and the privileges of rank
are observed by us. Thanks to my title and my relationship to
the grand duke, the crowd in the midst of which I stood
gradually fell back, and I found myself left almost alone in the
embrasure of the door. It was, no doubt, owing to this
circumstance that the princess, awaking from her reverie,
perceived, and no doubt recognised me, for she started and
blushed.

She had seen my portrait at my aunt's, and recognised me;
nothing could be more simple. The princess's eyes did not rest
upon me an instant, but that look threw me into the most violent
confusion. I felt my cheeks glow, I cast down my eyes, and did
not venture to raise them for some time. When I dared at last to
steal a glance at the princess she was speaking in a low tone to
the archduchess, who seemed to listen to her with the most
affectionate interest.

Liszt having paused for a few moments between the pieces he was
playing, the grand duke took the opportunity of expressing his
admiration. On returning to his place he perceived me, nodded
kindly to me, and said something to the archduchess, fixing his
eyes on me at the same time. The duchess, after looking at me a
moment, turned to the duke, who smiled and said something to his
daughter that seemed to embarrass her, for she blushed again. I
was on thorns; but, unfortunately, etiquette forbade my leaving
my place until the concert was over.

As soon as the concert was finished I followed the aide-de-camp;
he conducted me to the grand duke, who deigned to advance a few
steps towards me, took me by the arm, and said to the
Archduchess Sophia:

"Permit me to present to your royal highness my cousin, Prince
Henry of Herkauesen-Oldenzaal."

"I have seen the prince at Vienna, and meet him here with
pleasure," replied the duchess, before whom I inclined myself
respectfully.

"My dear Amelie," continued the prince, addressing his daughter,
"this is Prince Henry, your cousin, the son of one of my most
valued friends, Prince Paul, whom I greatly lament not seeing
here to-day."

"Pray, monseigneur, inform the prince that I equally regret his
absence, for I am always delighted to know any of my father's
friends."

I had not until then heard the princess's voice, and I was
struck with its intense sweetness.

"I hope, my dear Henry, you will stay some time with your aunt,"
said the grand duke. "Come and see us often about three o'clock
_en famille_; and if we ride out you must accompany us. You know
how great an affection I have always felt for you, for your
noble qualities."

"I cannot express my gratitude for your royal highness's
kindness."

"Well, to prove it," said the grand duke, smiling, "engage your
cousin for the second quadrille; the first belongs to the
archduke."

"Will your royal highness do me the honour?" said I to my
cousin.

"Oh, call each other cousin, as in the good old times," replied
the duke, laughing. "There should be no ceremony between
relations."

"Will you dance with me, cousin?"

"Yes, cousin," replied the princess.

I cannot tell how much I felt the touching kindness of the grand
duke, and how bitterly I reproached myself for yielding to an
affection the prince would never authorise.

I vowed inwardly that nothing should induce me to acquaint my
cousin with my affection, but I feared my emotion would betray
me.

I had leisure for these reflections whilst my cousin danced the
first quadrille with the Archduke Stanislaus. Nothing was more
suited to display the graces of the princess's person than the
slow movements of the dance. I anxiously awaited my turn; and I
succeeded in concealing my emotion when I led her to the
quadrille.

"Does your royal highness sanction my calling you cousin?" said
I.

"Oh, yes, cousin, I am always delighted to obey my father."

"I rejoice in this familiarity, since I have learnt from my aunt
to know you."

"My father has often spoken of you, cousin; and what may,
perhaps, astonish you," added she, timidly, "I also knew you by
sight; for one day the Abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, your aunt, for
whom I have the greatest respect, showed me your picture."

"As a page of the sixteenth century?"

"Yes, cousin; and my father was malicious enough to tell me that
it was an ancestor of ours, and spoke so highly of his courage
and his other qualities that our family ought to be proud of
their descent from him."

"Alas, cousin, I fear my resemblance to my portrait is not
great!"

"You are mistaken, cousin," said the princess. "For at the end
of the concert I recognised you immediately, in spite of the
difference of costume." Then, wishing to change the
conversation, she added, "How charmingly M. Liszt plays!--does
he not?"

"Yes. How attentively you listened to him!"

"Because there is to me a double charm in music without words.
Not only you hear the execution, but you can adapt your thoughts
to the melody. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly; your own thoughts become words to the air."

"Yes, you quite comprehend me," said she, with a gesture of
satisfaction. "I feared I could not express what I felt just
now."

"I thank God, cousin," said I, smiling, "you can have no words
to set to so sad an air."

I know not whether my question was indiscreet or whether she had
not heard me, but suddenly she exclaimed, pointing out to me the
grand duke, who crossed the room with the archduchess on his
arm, "Cousin, look at my father, how handsome he is! how noble!
how good! Every one looks at him as if they loved him more than
they feared him."

"Ah," cried I, "it is not only here he is beloved. If the
blessing of his people be transmitted to their posterity, the
name of Rodolph of Gerolstein will be immortal."

"To speak thus is to be, indeed, worthy of his attachment."

"I do but give utterance to the feelings of all present; see how
they all hasten to pay their respects to Madame d'Harville!"

"No one in the world is more worthy of my father's affections
than Madame d'Harville."

"You are more capable than any one of appreciating her, as you
have been in France."

Scarcely had I pronounced these words than the princess cast
down her eyes, and her features assumed an air of melancholy;
and when I led her back to her seat the expression of them was
still the same. I suppose that my allusion to her stay in France
recalled the death of her mother.

In the course of the evening a circumstance occurred which you
may think too trivial to mention, perhaps, but which evinces the
extraordinary influence this young girl universally inspires.
Her bandeau of pearls having become disarranged, the Archduchess
Sophia, who was leaning on her arm, kindly readjusted the
ornament upon her brow. Knowing, as we do, the hauteur of the
archduchess, such condescension is almost inconceivable.

The next morning I was invited, together with a few other
persons, to be present at the marriage of the grand duke with
Madame la Marquise d'Harville. I had never seen the princess so
radiant and happy.

Some days after the duke's marriage I had a long interview with
him. He questioned me about my past life, my future career. He
gave me the most admirable advice, the kindest encouragement. So
much so that the idea crossed my mind that he had perceived my
love and wished to bring me to confess it.

But this idea was soon dispelled. The prince concluded by
telling me that the great wars were over, that I ought to avail
myself of my name, my connections, the education I had received,
and my father's friendship with the Prince de M----, prime
minister of the emperor, in order to follow a diplomatic instead
of a military career. In a word, he offered me his sovereign
protection to facilitate my entry in the career he proposed to
me.

I thanked him for his offers with gratitude, and added that I
felt the weight of his advice and would follow it.

I at first visited the palace very seldom; but, thanks to the
duke's reiterated invitations, I was soon there almost every
day. We lived in the peaceful retirement resembling that of some
English mansions. When the weather permitted we rode out with
the duke, the duchess, and the grand personages of the court.

When we were forced to remain at home we sang, and I accompanied
the grand duchess and my cousin, who had the sweetest and most
expressive voice I ever heard. At other times we inspected the
magnificent picture galleries and museums, and the library of
the prince, who is one of the most accomplished men in Europe. I
often dined at the palace, and on the opera nights I accompanied
the duke's family to the theatre.

Could this intimacy have lasted for ever I should have been
happy, perhaps, but I reflected that I should be summoned to
Vienna by my duties. I reflected, also, that the duke would soon
think of finding a suitable alliance for his daughter.

My cousin remarked this change in me. The evening before I
quitted Gerolstein she told me she had for several days remarked
my abstracted manner. I endeavoured to evade this question,
saying that my approaching departure was the cause.

"I can scarcely believe it," replied she. "My father treats you
like a son; every one loves you. It would be ingratitude if you
were unhappy."

"Alas!" said I, unable to restrain my emotion, "it is grief I am
a prey to!"

"Why, what has happened?"

"Just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like
a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, I must
quit Gerolstein. It is this that grieves me."

"And are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?"

"Doubtless; but time brings so many changes."

"There are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as
that of my father for you, such as that I feel for you. When you
are once brother and sister you never forget each other," added
she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears.

I was on the point of betraying myself; however, I controlled my
feelings in time.

"Do you think then, cousin," said I, "that when I return in a
few years this affection will continue?"

"Why should it not?"

"Because you will be probably married; you will have other
duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother."

This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at
these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the
changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she
was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her
face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked
for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess
d'Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.

The same evening I received a second letter from my father,
urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand
duke. He told me my cousin was unwell, but that he would make
my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of
assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence,
nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at
Gerolstein.

Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined
to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now
that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?

Just as I finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great
surprise, my father, whom I believed to be in bed, entered; he
saw the letter on the table.

"To whom are you writing so long a letter?" said he, smiling.

"To Maximilian, father."

"Oh," said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "he
has all your confidence! He is very happy!"

He pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that I
held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying:

"Read it, father."

My friend, he has read all! After having remained musing some
time he said to me:

"Henry, I shall write and inform the grand duke of all that
passed during your stay at Gerolstein."

"Father, I entreat you not!"

"Is what you have written to Maximilian scrupulously true?"

"Yes."

"Do you love your cousin?"

"I adore her; but--"

My father interrupted me.

"Then, in that case, I shall write to the grand duke and demand
her hand for you."

"But, father, such a demand will be madness on my part!"

"It is true; but still, in making this demand, I shall acquaint
the prince with my reasons for making it. He has received you
with the greatest kindness, and it would be unworthy of me to
deceive him. He will be touched at the frankness of my demand,
and, though he refuse it, as he certainly will, he will yet know
that, should you ever again visit Gerolstein, you cannot be on
the same familiar terms with the princess."

You know that, although so tenderly attached to me, my father is
inflexible in whatever concerns his duty; judge, then, of my
fears, of my anxiety.

I hastily terminate this long letter, but I will soon write
again. Sympathise with me, for I fear I shall go mad if the
fever that preys on me does not soon abate. Adieu, adieu! Ever
yours,

HENRY D'H.-O.

We will now conduct the reader to the palace of Gerolstein, inhabited by Fleur-de-Marie since her return from France.